The Hunt
by Lyne-chan
Summary: Escape. That's something he rarely ever did. But this time he fled, not waiting for it to react, not hanging around to let it strike. "Run, run little one", it was saying. "For I'll soon catch you. And then…"


Hi everyone!

I don't know what came over me on this one, but I'm glad I wrote it. I wanted to write something for Halloween, but I didn't plan to do so in English. It just came up like that. I was halfway through writing it when I realized what I was doing! Yeah, I'm weird like that...

Anyway, I hope that my English doesn't suck too bad and that you'll enjoy this short story.

Please, feel free to point out any mistake that you might find, and tell me what you think.

* * *

He was dashing through the forest, his figure nothing but a black blur speeding between the trees, jumping above thick, gnarled roots and scrunching dead twigs over dried leaves. His feet barely touched the ground, his breath frozen puffs hanging mid-air in the cold morning. Red, angry eyes darted back and forth, taking in their surrounding, searching for a threat that was yet to be killed.

Escape.

That's something he rarely ever did.

But this time he fled, no waiting for it to react, not hanging around to let it strike.

Speed. Reactivity.

That's what has kept him alive so far.

He bolted.

His foot caught on rough barks. Traitorous roots. Devilish, wooden hands whose claws were reaching for him, trying to hold him back, eager to sink into his flesh and feast on his blood.

He kept on.

His dark, spiky black hairs were sticking to his temples, heavy with leaves, dust and half dried blood. A thick, foul smelling substance was coating his skin and he winced at the smell of his own sweat – a strong, heady stench of fear, anger and desperation.

The wind was clawing at his face, trying to blind him, to make him stop. But he wouldn't. Not for anything in the world. He pushed himself to go faster, swifter, so fast that his muscles were tearing angrily under his skin. His legs were shaking with pain, begging him to stop. For a moment he thought that they would buckle and let him fall. But they didn't, and he went on, his figure now invisible to the naked eye and the harsh, cold wind the only clue of his presence to the passerby. But there was no one. No one but him and the _thing_. And between them, a trail of blood.

His blood.

A loud, hoarse roar echoed in the distance. Strong, heavy footsteps were slowly approaching. It was taking its time, enjoying the chase.

Run, run little one, it was saying. For I'll soon catch you. And then…

Noises of trees crashing, rough bark cracking then weeping as it fell on the ground were ringing at his ears. He heard claws, monstrous claws ripping through harsh wood. Strong barks were snapping like twigs under its weigh, its brawny limbs stomping on them like they were nothing.

It was coming.

The fool breath of the beast was already seeping through the trees, reaching his sensitive nostrils like a cloud of foul poison. It reeked of decay and warm, festering flesh, swollen with gas and dead fluids.

Another tree fell, and this time he narrowly escaped the canopy of leaves that crashed close – so close to him. He felt the coarse, grainy leaves scratch his skin, the shaking of the ground as the bark collapsed on the frozen earth and the sudden rush of the wind that seemed to cower before the impending threat.

Red, glowing eyes. A huge mouth, sharp fangs, and a long, snaky tongue that curled and lashed like a whip seemed to grin at him. It rolled its chops, baring its fangs for his eyes to see, indistinct figure still concealed in the darkness. It came forth, then slowed down, playing with him, testing the waters. It enjoyed the thrill of a good game. The prey would soon become skittish, then terror would sip in. It would bolt and stop thinking. Fear would devour everything else, hurling it right into his claws. Just. There. Where death was awaiting it. He was death. He liked it.

Run, little one. Run. For I'll soon catch you. And then…

Red eyes and spiky hairs, tattered with blood. Pale face, carved cheeks and lean limbs. His bones so delicates, so easy to break. One little shove and it would be ruined.

He bolted.

The beast was setting off every one of his instincts. He rode on a rush of sheer fright, drunk on the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins. He enjoyed the thrill of the chase. Nothing felt better than the burning of his exhausted limbs, the harshness of his breathing, the loud thumping of his heart.

Closer, closer.

He could almost taste it, the rancid taste of its fear. It smelt like sweat and blood and despair. Its legs were burning. It smelled like fresh blood. Panic. He liked this scent.

It gave a small cry. It felt him. So close, so dangerous. There was nothing it could do. Tick, tack. Tick, tack. The game was drawing to an end. He raised his claws. One strike, that's all it took. It fell with a gasp, its back strained with blood. Warm, red blood. It bathed the fallen leaves, tainted the barren ground and dripped from his trembling hands.

Ecstasy.

He rode the wave, savored the feeling.

It trembled. A gurgling sound rose from its throat. A soft sob came, then it ceased its moving. It was dead.

He howled.

Red, angry eyes rested upon the fallen pray. Spiky black hair swayed in the cold wind. His ragged breathing calmed, his heart slowed under his ribs. The rush died down. It was over.

With a last glance over his shoulder, he remembered red glowing eyes in the dark, deadly chops and heavy paws. Then he thrust his bloody hands in his pockets and stepped over the slowly cooling body.

Run, run little one. I tell you. For I'll soon catch you. And then…


End file.
